


Renaissance Men

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Elizabethan, England (Country), Gen, M/M, Renaissance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-02
Updated: 2010-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean, a Renaissance playwright seeking a patron and some small success, bubbles over with frustration at his rival's popularity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renaissance Men

**Author's Note:**

> An AU set in Elizabethan England and loosely inspired by popular theories around and characterizations of Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare. Written for [](http://empy.livejournal.com/profile)[**empy**](http://empy.livejournal.com/), who is responsible for the original idea and, in her inimitable style, allowed _her_ plotbunny to bite _me_. Ow! Also for everyone who wished me a Happy Birthday this year, in all venues and forms. Thank you. ♥

The playbill hissed satisfyingly as it tore, half still garishly stuck to the wall, the other half limp and useless in Sean's hands. He smirked, catching another piece against his fingertips, ripping crosswise until naught was left but two corners and a blob of paste.

Sean looked down at the swathes of paper in his hands. The colourful dyes announcing Viggo's new play made the bile in his throat curdle, something sharp twisting and stabbing in his stomach. He growled, gripping paper and ink and crumpling it into a mash of hued calligraphy before dropping it all unceremoniously into the muck at his feet.

"Another _success_ ," he muttered, each review emblazoned on his mind like the sizzling mark of a brand, "Another bloody success for a bloody great _prat_ of a playwright." The critics, as far as Sean was concerned, were little more than fashionable puppets of all the little lords and ladies, bowing, scraping, and echoing back what they wanted to hear, and the audiences were too much a population of fools to appreciate _true_ satire and nuance when it was served up to them on golden plates. He kicked at the sodden wad of paper and pen, getting a small sip of satisfaction as it skittered rather wetly into the cobblestoned street.

Sean trudged slowly down the high street towards the slums, trying hard to ignore the sickly squelch as water inexorably seeped through the cracked leather of his boots into his hose. It had been a fortnight since he'd earned so much as a ha'penny treading the boards, and it was becoming harder and harder to duck his landlord. Worse yet, he was on the verge of having less than nothing to pay for a little tipple, and he was certain this time not even the most drab of the barmaids would take payment in flattery dressed up as pretty poesy.

It was so far beyond unfair as to make Sean half-believe he was being tortured by the Horned One himself. He had yet to find himself a patron that did not have a propensity for falling off of ships at sea, lost forever along with any hope of payment of Sean's tab, yet Viggo -- bloody upstart that he was, friend of the common man and lover of puckering up for lords' arses -- was the darling of the Duke, and there was much talk that he would be trading up from Duke to Queen forthwith, should this newest effort be deemed a _success_. It was a hard thing not to lurk at the docks, looking for the right hand to cross with a little silver and the right ship to bundle his rival on to, shipping him back to Daneland where he belonged.

The titter of laughter roused Sean from his musings, and through the open door of the last pub before Deptford, he spied Viggo, grinning and golden, surrounded by his latest passel of admirers. The dark-haired boy he'd recently taken up with was there, as usual, a youth barely out of short breeches, and hardly old enough to play the man on the boards. His adoration shone from him like a halo, lighting up Viggo's face from proximity alone. The table itself was cluttered with tankards, a sure sign that all was prosperous and happy in Viggo's world, the spoils of favour and good opinion.

It was enough to have Sean reaching for his lacings, ready to loosen them enough so he might leave a steaming stream of _his_ opinion on Viggo's work across the threshold.

As if the thought had travelled across space and tapped him on the shoulder, Viggo looked up from the table, straight out to the street, and locked eyes with Sean. The cocky grin he had sported not a moment ago seemed to fade into something quieter, more reflective, and Sean found himself frozen in place, victim of the pin as sure as if he had been a netted butterfly. The warmth of the pub called to him, gold light spilling into the street, across the toes of his boots, and yet he felt a chill run up his back. If he did not know better, Sean was sure the workings of watches had ground to a halt, breath stopped in his throat, heart hanging between beats. His throat grew dry, parched for something more than liquids or phrases, and as the moment stretched and lengthened, he wished more and more for the power to break from Viggo's orbit. Yet the man kept his eyes on Sean, ignoring all else.

And then the boy jostled Viggo's elbow, intentionally drawing his attention, an innocent smile already affixed to cover all ills.

Like the end of a held breath, time rushed back in to seal the wound, and Sean blinked, the strange spell broken. He found himself stepping backward from the light, into the cold of the shadows, and just as he turned to make his way further into Deptford, he shrugged his shoulders, trying to slough off an almost foreign sense of regret.


End file.
